


The Painter and His Muse

by sweeterthanstrawberries



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sirius Black x you, Sirius x reader - Freeform, Sirius x you, Sirius/reader - Freeform, Sirius/you - Freeform, artist x muse trope, sirius black/reader - Freeform, sirius black/you - Freeform, victorian au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25493455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweeterthanstrawberries/pseuds/sweeterthanstrawberries
Summary: What starts as a simple portrait painting becomes so much more.
Relationships: Sirius Black x Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	The Painter and His Muse

“The portrait artist is coming today,” your mother says pointedly, pursing her lips at the mud splatters on the hem of your dress.

“Yes, Mother,” you nod.

“He will be here at eleven so change,” she announces before strutting out of your room.

With a heaving sigh, you shift through your closet, looking for a dress to wear. Getting your portrait painted was your mother’s idea as having some old man stare at your every feature for hours is not something you enjoy. You call in your maid, Bertha, who has been more of a mother to you than your own ever has, to enlist her help in preparing you for the dreaded appointment. 

“Yes, dear?” she asks softly upon entering your room.

“Which one?” you hold up two elegant dresses, one in each hand, alternating them against your body. 

She looks keenly at both before answering with a kind smile, “The left one.”

Reflecting her smile, you turn around for Bertha to begin undoing the buttons on the back your dress. She quickly helps you out of it and into your selected party dress, lacing up the back, adjusting until everything fits just right. Weathered fingers work through knots in your hair, twisting and braiding until it is situated perfectly on your head. Lips are painted and cheeks are pinched.

When you are all ready, the clock reads five to the hour, meaning it is time to face the music. Striding to the parlor, Bertha encouragingly follows you, offering words of assurance.

“You look beautiful, darling. I’m sure the painting will turn out wonderful,” she smiles sweetly, opening the door.

Stepping into the room, you find an easel and canvas already set up in front of an intricately carved cushioned armchair, but no painter in sight. You figure that the chair is for you, so you gingerly sit down. Bertha comes to arrange the layers of fabric around your legs. You sit up straight, posing for her with a smug look, nose in the air, mimicking the face your mother made in her most recent portrait.

“Oh, Y/N,” she admonishes, however unable to hide her amused smile. 

“How’s this?” you ask, contorting your face in a scowl.

“Behave yourself,” Bertha implores with a laugh.

Before you can tease your maid any more, the door opens and a young man steps into the room. He wears a loose shirt, riddled with splattered paint. He has long black hair and high cheekbones, giving him an air of mystery and beauty. He is far from the wrinkled, mustached old man you had imagined would be painting you today.

“Hello,” he says, walking over to grasp your hand and bring it gently to his lips for a kiss. “You must be Y/N.”

A small smile tugs at your mouth, nodding once in affirmation. “And you are?”

“Sirius Black,” he answers, releasing your hand from his. His eyes trace your features as if studying them, making you feel self-conscious, but confident when he whispers, “Quelle beauté.”

After Sirius shuffles to his easel, Bertha leans down to whisper to you, “I’ll leave you to your fun,” patting your shoulder and ambling off with a twinkle in her eye. You just shake your head at her teasing.

“Is there a way you would like me to sit, Mr. Black?” you ask the artist who is hovering over his paints, his back to you, plucking jars of color out of his case.

“Sirius, please. And just how you are is perfect,” he says without turning around, making you scrunch your eyebrows, suddenly unsure as to whether you can trust this man to paint a decent picture of you. With a shrug, you casually place an elbow on the armrest and sit back in the chair comfortably. 

Sirius turns around, palette ready, paintbrush poised. He smiles broadly, almost as if he was trying to relax you, and it seems to be doing its job. You let out a breath, and reflect his smile.

“Beautiful,” he states before beginning his work, causing heat to creep into your cheeks.

He ducks behind the easel, every once in a while poking his head out to study your features in order to replicate them on the canvas. He tugs his lips between his teeth in concentration, shaking waves of hair out of his eyes every time he peers around his station. You sit quietly, a small smile on your lips. You enjoy watching Sirius mutter to himself, too focused on his art to notice your staring. He is very handsome, you have to admit. 

Minutes in the chair turn into hours, and soon your bottom begs for a break.

“Sirius, may I stand up for a minute?” you ask. 

Stepping to the side of the painting, he assures “Yes, of course,” while setting his own palette and paint brushes down. “It is time for a break, n’est-ce pas?”

You nod and stand, grasping your gown in your hands so as not to step on it. You begin to walk around the room slowly, and you can feel his eyes on you.

“Sirius, have you painted many people before?” you question curiously.

“A fair few,” he replies.

“What a modest answer,” you tease.

He just smiles, a slight laugh falling from his lips. “Yes, I guess so.”

Satisfied enough, you sit yourself back in the chair, resuming the position you held before. Sirius returns to his brushes and begins to work again.

After another hour of getting lost in your thoughts, Sirius says, “I am finished for today.”

“Oh, great,” you reply, bouncing up from your seat.

“Would you like to come see?” he asks. You nod before joining him behind his easel to inspect his work. 

What you see takes your breath away. He has captured your likeness in bright hues of color, highlighting your skin in a way that glows. Sirius watches your reaction carefully and grins when he sees approval in your eyes.

“It is lovely,” you breathe. “Thank you.”

“Would you like to pose at my studio tomorrow to finish it?”

“Yes, I would like that,” you answer, almost excited to spend more time with Sirius Black.

***

Despite your mother’s disapproval of going to Sirius’ studio, you and Bertha bounce along the cobblestones to get your portrait finished. You step out of the buggy and make your way to the small townhouse where he told you to meet him yesterday. 

Bertha, however, doesn’t follow. You shoot her a questioning look to which she answers, “I need to go to the market. Besides, it will be more fun if I’m not hanging around. Just don’t tell your mother.”

You giggle, “Thank you, Bertha.”

“Now go! Don’t want to be late for your artist,” she says with a wink, shooing you to the door.

You knock, anxiously waiting in your evening gown, suddenly feeling very odd on the street in the middle of the day in such elegant dress. The door quickly opens and Sirius stands on the other side in what looks like the same apparel as yesterday.

“Hello,” you greet, smiling.

“Hello, yes. Please, come in,” Sirius steps aside to let you pass through the door. “How are you today?”

“Just fine,” you say, earnestly looking around the rooms he leads you through to get to his studio. He walks resolutely, shoulders back and confident. You can’t help but notice his lean build and sleek hair when you trail behind him.

“Here we are,” he motions for you to enter a brightly lit room, sunlight streaming through the large glass windows on the walls facing the street. A group of easels are set up in a corner while one stands in the middle of the room with your half completed portrait resting on the ledge. The walls are white and have stacks of blank canvases leaning against them. “Please, sit.”

You settle into the chair and resume your position from your previous session. Sirius mumbles to himself something in French, getting his palette and paintbrushes ready to commence.

“Vous parlez français?” 

He smiles kindly, glancing at you from behind his easel. “Oui, I moved to France as a child to study art.”

“Je vois,” you hum. “My father was French.”

Sirius’ face falters at your use of the past tense, but does not press the matter any more. Instead, he says, “You make a beautiful portrait.”

You duck your head bashfully, “I’m sure you have painted more beautiful women.”

“I daresay I haven’t,” he replies assuredly.

The two of you then drift into your separate thoughts in silence, yours following a train set on tracks of your father. You remember his voice when he would read French poetry to you as a girl, and how he would sing when you danced. Life was enjoyable when he brought light to the house. He became sick when you were fifteen and passed away almost two years later. Your mother was never the same, and the house is no longer filled with love, laughter, music, or poetry.

You must have begun to frown because Sirius breaks you from your reverie by asking, “Y/N, are you alright?”

A bit startled, you press a smile on your face, “Yes, fine.”

He cocks his head slightly, concern apparent in his features, wondering what you were thinking about to make you turn so somber. Setting his materials down, he comes to sit in the adjacent chair beside you.

“I have truly enjoyed painting you,” Sirius starts. “Would you like to come back next week for another sitting?”

Taken slightly aback, you ponder his question. “To be your muse?”

“In a way, yes. My muse,” he says, smiling softly.

Sirius has been nothing but kind to you. His suave demeanor and kind nature draws you in, and you realize that you want to be his muse. You want to spend time with him, and your heart stutters at the thought.

“When do we start?”

***

“Today, I was thinking I could have you reading on the chaise longue,” Sirius says, gesturing to the furniture set up in front of the windows.

You nod and move to position yourself on the sofa. Resting an elbow on the back, you face your body towards Sirius and his easel. You watch him approach you with a book in hand, studying your features and the arrangement of your body on the furniture.

Handing the book to you, he says, “Could you pose with this?”

You look down at the thin, cloth covered volume, the spine reading La Poésie de Gérard de Nerval. A small gasp escapes you when you flip through the first few poems. 

“What is it, Y/N?” Sirius asks quickly.

“My father used to read me these poems when I was a child,” you reply quietly.

“He is my favorite poet,” he smiles.

Sirius takes a step back, eyes trailing up and down your body, but you don’t feel uncomfortable. You wear simple clothes, no longer needing the elegant evening gown as you did in your portrait. He makes you feel beautiful, as irrational as that seems. Sirius admires you. You can see it in his face when he looks at you. No one has ever looked at you that way before.

You open the book, posing for him, pretending. He hums before taking one of your ankles, untying the laces on your shoe, removing the leather, leaving you in your stockings. He does the same with the other, glancing up at you from under his lashes as he fiddles with the strings. 

Before you can reconsider, you ask, “Should I remove my stockings as well?”

A flash of a smirk forms on his lips before being replaced by a seemingly innocent smile. “If you wish.”

Keeping your eyes trained on his, you reach under your dress and begin working your stockings down your knees, to your ankles, pulling them off your body entirely. Sirius maintains the eye contact, not shying away from your teasing.

You lean back on the furniture, repositioning yourself. Sirius places a tentative hand on your ankle, lifting and moving it so your foot rests on your other leg’s calf. You watch him as he does this before you grab your skirt, pulling it up slightly to expose more of your legs. If you didn’t know better, you would say a slight blush tints his cheeks as he turns to hide behind his easel.

Sirius takes one good look at you and raises his hand to the canvas, tracing your outline with paint. You turn to the poetry, reading silently, enjoying the tranquility of the scene. You had never really been the adventurous or flirtatious type, but everything feels different with Sirius. His attention is almost addicting, stirring a desire in you that you want to keep in the fire until it is boiling over.

“Read to me,” Sirius says suddenly.

Your head whips to see him smiling, tucked into his work.

“Bien sûr,” you reply, beginning to read the familiar poetry. 

You read one poem, and then another. The French rolls easily off your tongue, lilting and soft. Sirius hangs onto every word, gripped by the gentle tone of your voice and the natural accent you have. He is enthralled by you, your beauty, your poise, and he wants to be surrounded by you until he can’t remember himself.

***

Sessions once a week turn into sessions every day. Both you and Sirius are engrossed by the other and what they offer. He paints or draws you standing, sitting, lying down. You talk and laugh while he does, enjoying his company. You trust him. You tell him things you have never told anyone else because you know that he understands. That he cares. That he loves you.

“Y/N, I would understand if you don’t want to do this,” Sirius starts, taking a small, anxious step towards you.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to keep the nerves out of your tone. He normally isn’t so tense when he sets you up for pieces. You have been meeting for weeks now, much to the chagrin of your mother, but you don’t pay her any mind.

“Would you like to do a nude piece? Your back would be to me, so I wouldn’t see anything, but I thought that it would be beautiful and,” Sirius rambles but stops when he sees you nodding.

“I’ll do it,” you whisper, not sure where your newfound courage is coming from, but you suspect it has something to do with being around Sirius. Nothing you have done yet has been too risqué, but you realize that you are not afraid to try it.

“You will do it?” he repeats in disbelief.

“Yes, I’ll do it. Where will I sit?” you ask, glancing about the room.

Wordlessly, afraid that if he said anything you would change your mind, Sirius grabs a small stool and places it in the middle of the room. He then grabs a large mirror, and moves it behind the stool, allowing it to reflect the light shining through the windows. Looking at you, he nods with raised eyebrows in question.

You nod in response and begin to untie your shoes. Sirius bustles about the room in an effort to avoid watching you undress, no matter how much he secretly wishes to peek. 

He can hear you strain to unhook the back of your dress, and in a moment of boldness, Sirius moves to stand behind you and quickly undoes the fastens holding your dress together. You mumble a thank you as you shrug the dress off your shoulders, allowing it to pool around your ankles. Thin fingers push away your shift which leaves you in naught but your skin.

You can hear a shaky breath emit from Sirius as well as feel it on the nape of your neck. His hands itch to caress your back, to trail down your spine, but he laces them together before they can succumb to temptation. 

Throwing a glance over your shoulder, you see his head turned away from you, preserving your modesty, but you realize that you don’t care. Sirius has become a confidant, a friend, and someone you are starting to love. You walk to sit on the stool, facing the mirror.

In the reflection, you can see Sirius holding his paintbrush loaded with color to the side of his canvas, but he doesn’t paint anything. The hair at the back of your neck prickles with the feeling of his eyes on you, but you welcome it. Meeting his gaze in the mirror, you smile.

This seems to snap him out of his trance, and he blushes, blinks, and focuses on his canvas.

You don’t speak much while he paints, unlike some of your previous sessions. You assume that it is because you are sitting naked in his studio. His eyebrows furrow when he concentrates hard on details, lips pulled between his teeth. You watch him with the mirror, trying to learn his features as he has yours.

After what must have been a few hours, Sirius announces his completion. At his remarks, you hop up, groaning as you stretch, for sitting on that stool unsupported was a bit of a nuisance. From behind you, you can hear a sharp intake of breath. You forget yourself, and turn around to see Sirius blinking quickly, eyes darting over you before glueing their gaze to the floor.

Sirius mumbles to himself in French, obviously embarrassed, but you shock yourself by your lack of regret. Unrepentant, you pull your underclothes over your head and move to stand beside Sirius. He stares at the painting, and you stare with him.

His talent is incredible. His ability to catch the smallest details and bring them to life in the most brilliant way is unparalleled, and you feel pride that you are his muse. 

Pondering the painting, a horrible thought occurs to you as you look at the piece, one that had only begun to stir in the back of your mind. You realize that you won’t always be his muse. Sirius will move on, find another beautiful girl to paint, and let them be the center of his world. A deep sadness flows through you like a raging river, dragging you into the overpowering current. You feel a fool to believe that this would last. You had not seen past your selfish desire to be with Sirius. You had let yourself be blinded by your love and fascination, and only now you were resurfacing in reality.

Carefully watching your face, Sirius notices a shift while you gaze at the painting. He swears that your shoulders drop, a small frown setting on your face.

“Love, what’s wrong?” he asks gently, placing a hand on your arm.

“When will you stop?” you question rather defensively.

Taken aback, Sirius asks, “What do you mean?” concern lacing his voice.

You turn to face Sirius and sigh. “Will this be our last piece?”

“What gave you that idea?” a near panic sets into him.

You sit back down on the stool in the middle of the room, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“I can’t be your muse forever,” you state, sadness in your tone.

Sirius walks to stand in front of you, breaking your eye contact with yourself, forcing you to look up at him. He takes your chin in his paint ridden hand, and whispers, “Yes, you can.”

A softness overtakes your features, warmth flooding your chest. “I love you, Sirius, and I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

He smiles broadly, kneeling down in front of you. “Then don’t think that. I love you, Y/N, and I want you to be my muse until I can no longer hold a paintbrush in my hand.”

Leaning forward, he ghosts his lips over yours, brushing just enough to let you breath him in and decide you want him more than anything.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for taking the time to read!! <3


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